Draco Malfoy Noun
by andr0medae
Summary: Most of the students smirked when they heard the news, a few clapped, and some rowdy students even cheered. Headmistress McGonagall had never been more disgusted in her life- granted she hadn't liked Draco Malfoy much but still this was outrageous so she sentenced half the school to detention and it wasn't even 9 am yet. Goodness! Post DH,Non Epilogue compliant,ONESHOT,dark themes


_**Do not read if you don't want to read about self mutilation and suicide. This is not a story intended to trigger, I am sorry if it does. **_

_**Reviews and reads are much appreciated so thank you in advance if you do read and/ or review.**_

_**Obviously I don't own any characters.**_

Draco Malfoy.

**Draconis Lucius Malfoy; noun. **

_Male, pureblood wizard, son and brother, pale, flaxen hair, grey eyes, of no friends, very few honorable acquaintances, many enemies, sad, depressed, regretful, once held bad faith, now holds nothing, killed count equals zero, torture count equals zero, a failure to Lord Voldemort and his cause, too weak for the Light side to want, father labels him a failure, considered worthless by society, labelled Gringott's youngest tycoon, lonely, afraid, suicidal, welcomer of Death, lover of Sugar Quills and chocolate frogs, detester of the colour green and the colour blue, loved by none, feared by none, hated by most, raped at 14 by Uncle in ancestral home Malfoy Manor, single, birthmark located on left thigh, proficient Occlumens, Patronus is void, loves no one, majority of family is incarcerated, never good enough, homes in Wiltshire, Nice, Paris, Amalfi Coast, habits include mutilating body, smoking, mindless sex, cutting off blood circulation via ligature, contemplating death, brewing poisons, vomiting or skipping meals, bruising body, counting ribs and occasional drugs, proficient Seeker, favourite subject contemplating suicide during Charms and Potions, least favourite subject Divination where the Grim is continuously found in his tea leaves, dreams and aspirations include failure, success, playing Quidditch for the Chudley Canons, traumatic death, suicide, being murdered and time travel..._

"I just want to die, just gonna die, a miserable, bloody wonderful death," I sang, taking swigs of Firewhiskey as I did, under the stars, it is almost melancholy, but the stars twinkle down, the constellation of Draconis is not bright tonight, it has Failed. My name is synonymous with Failure, and Dirty Things, Dark Pasts, Uselessness, Let's Rape Little Boys and all the nasty things that go hump, thump and bump in the night.

"Sir Death, I am here to die, how are you my darling friend?" I laughed, mocking and twisted, listening as the sound distorted as it carried across the sky from the Astronomy Tower. He hasn't appeared yet, but I'm waiting for him, ready to take his frail hand and head off to his domain where the dead things go- in my case I'm off straight to Hell; it sounds grand, perhaps Voldemort will be there and we can catch up for a quick gossip or Rodolphus and his buddies can line up and we'll have a good game of rape Lucius' son in revenge for old times sake.

My mother's dead; she loved me a bit.

My father's still alive; he doesn't love me, but he's pleased at the few moments I make a model heir.

I just want to die.

Dead as a doorknob- quite fitting for a Malfoy heir isn't it really?

I've got nothing. Absolutely nothing in my life, just cold hard Galleons and a beautiful Manor and some other properties I haven't been to in an awful long time. Cold hard cash _(15 million Galleons and just as many Sickles and Knuts)_; the Malfoy vault is really quite beautiful, resplendent with gold and glinting jewels and yet as I slice a piece of flesh off my arm, watching beads of blood, so similar to those cursed burgundy pearls that killed my great great great grandmother really, pool and drip, there is really nothing quite so beautiful as watching blood, sweet coppery tasting blue blood pulse through a vein. The sight of my flesh, sitting in my lap , white on one side and it almost looks slimy I decide, like a limpid penis, so unlike Rabastan's or Rodolphus' erections really _(no one will believe you Draco, let this be between us huh? Yes sir, good boy bend over now)_, is enough to make sane people sick- but I am not sane, I am Draco, Saint of Failure and Insanity is my best friend here at Hogwarts. Instead I take my little blade, one of a set currently in my study at Malfoy Manor and twirl it in the air, mesmerised by the moon and stars that catch on the silver.

An interesting point about this blade is that I doused it in poison two days ago, and as it is Goblin forged the blade has imbibed the poison- it will kill me and I will finally come first. Even the diamonds in the hilt and handle have taken on a lilac tinge, having stored poison in their tiny facets.

The pain is kind of bad now,_ (get up Malfoy's do not feel pain Draco, no you're right father Malfoy's don't feel pain) _so I keep drinking until I'm almost finished the bottle. Then I smash it against the cold cold floor _(Draco don't be ridiculous don't go out in the cold, yes Mother, the cold will only make you sick_), spattered with blood and white threads of hair, that was once my pride and joy, my Mother's treasure, my Father's gift and slice my cheek, caressing my face with glinting glass.

No one has committed suicide at Hogwarts according to the records and I searched long and hard this year for any records, and ways to overcome wards.

I spent hours throwing up in Myrtle's bathroom this year, and trying to access the Chamber of Salazar, Basilisk fangs are lethal, but my name is Failure and instead I resorted to scarring my skin, counting my bones, breaking them and healing them once more. Bruises are the most interesting mottled collection of colours, and secrets are juicy, I had my delicious secrets, protected by my bloodied fortress, hidden from the student population who took great delight in hexing and cursing me in the hallways- such fun, malicious torture is so delightful.

Although I suspect it has been hushed up, any suicides, there was the faintest possibility that he could be first _(secret secrets, mustn't let anyone know about the Squib brother I once had, secretly culled and buried in the garden, secrets secrets sweet secrets) _and I cut into my flesh once more in memory of all those dead because they weren't enough for Life to protect. A tribute to all the times I have cut in this waste of a final year at Hogwarts, re sitting so I can get my N.E.W.T.'s, another piece of parchment for my father to file away under Failure, with a suicide note and second place certificate for every year at Hogwarts.

The clearly visible veins in my mutilated arm are still pulsing blue blood, faintly, the largest vein, nestled amongst red raw flesh, there's no other word for it as it's not quite muscle, twitches every so often, I could squish it if I desired. Stop some of the flow, and then watch it surge away again, like a release.

"Death you miserable bastard, hurry up you're late for our date!" No doubt someone would hear, but they wouldn't come running, not for the scum, not for me. Bleeding bleeding. There are large veins in feet, but I refuse to take my shoes off, it would be somewhat undignified- and for all that I am, ex Death Eater, scum, branded with the Malfoy name, rich, ponsy, git, gay, clever, faggot, bastard, arsehole, anorexic, effeminate, smarmy, arrogant, homo, worthless, of little value to anyone or anything, I will not take my shoes off and sully the flagstones beneath my feet with my touch.

Instead I point my wand at my misshapen arm dripping with blood and break it, watching it hang at an unusual angle, bone almost pushing through the skin, but not quite. It's odd watching it, I feel somewhat dissociated from my body now, as if my soul or whatever I had in place of it, society has judged that I don't have one _(good souls go to a good place Draco so always be good, yes Mum) _and perhaps it has, perhaps Iris the messenger goddess will cut a lock of my hair, although I've pulled most of it out actually, it's congealing with the blood someway back down the stairs and along the dank corridor by the portrait of Sir Vladimir, and let my soul completely free as if I were the beautiful temptress Dido Elissa.

Nonetheless Death isn't here and neither is Iris, so I better do my best to hurry them up. I will not fail in this endeavour, I will not fail. I failed in everything else in my piddly little life, but I will not fail in this.

My legs are stretched out in front of me, the flap of skin with the Dark Mark tattooed falls to the side, next to my bottles of whiskey and pills and potions.

The pills, I stole from Granger and Madame Pomfrey, are like candy for me and my friend Depression, we love them, so like greedy little boys feast upon chocolates and sweets I guzzle some back- I must share of course, washed back with some concentrated dreamless sleep. Dreams are horrid things, building up hopes and wishes, crushed by my foe Reality who has black hair and vivid eyes.

Unknown footsteps, I better make this quick.

My dagger pops the vein, and the blood burst out- I wish it was like a water fountain, but it's not. More like the Lethe River.

But Reality has arrived bringing with him Disapproval, I hate her round glasses and her pursed lips and her Gryffindor favouritism, and the dregs of Society- her with fluffy brown hair and wisdom, he with that orange nonsense.

"Ah Iris, my darling, but where is Death?" I sigh, slugging back one of the many poisons I'd found at the Manor that the Ministry hadn't confiscated, perhaps whoever had searched hadn't recognised the lethal combinations of monkshood, unicorns blood, and various other poisonous elements. Iris is here, resplendent in ethereal rainbow colours and golden hair, just like mine. We'd make a handsome pair I note, in my suicide.

"No," Society cries, "no, Professor you must do something!"

Disapproval does nothing, she grows pale and shaky instead, and my sad sad Reality, he looks rather haunted, looms close for the briefest of moments, before he fades into the background- I am dying I have no need of Reality.

Iris has come for me, my lock of hair is yanked out by own bluish coloured hand, and I plunge the blade once more into my gut for good measure. I am so fucking high on succulent Death, and poison and drugs and whiskey that it does not matter- nothing matters, I will succeed in this. Hopefully they find my suicide note, but if they don't well, I will still succeed. Success is beautiful- ambrosia for the Insanity, honey for my sick sick life and blessed relief for the populace.

It is done, my vision is blurry and my soul departing in the gentle embrace of Iris. Death encroaches my peripheral vision.

I am dead finally. I did not fucking fail. I did not fail.


End file.
